


Ghosting

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post Reichenbach, Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-26
Updated: 2012-12-26
Packaged: 2017-11-22 13:51:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/610508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten months after Sherlock's death, John has finally given up on avoiding the detective's memory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghosting

**Author's Note:**

> Many many thanks to misscampground for beta-ing and being generally helpful!

_There is nothing here._

John has to remind himself as he stands, shuddering, in front of the door marked 221B for what must be the millionth time since… 

And he isn’t surprised or even disappointed anymore. There’s nothing here. There never is. There never will be. _Only Mrs. Hudson and the now vacant flat above her, still filled with all its former occupants’ things, but no living soul with them; only the ghost of footsteps and violin strains now long gone._

_There is nothing to see in this place._

John has to remind himself as he stands in front of St. Bart’s, not even twenty metres from where he stood when he saw… 

And he isn’t desperate or disbelieving anymore. There is nothing he can find here to change the truth. There never is. There never will be. _There is only Molly and her corpses; only the quiet bustle of doctors and laboratories; only the silence of a roof, now locked and monitored after Sherlock’s jump and the discovery of ‘Richard Brooke.’_

John does not believe what everyone around him says about Sherlock. He will never believe what they say, what he was told again and again after it was all over: _“He lied to you…You were taken in…He could have fooled anyone.”_ And he finds solace in those who still have faith. Mrs. Hudson, Molly, and even Lestrade after a while. 

He’d talked to Molly a couple times…after. But it had been awkward. She’d seemed to do most of the comforting and had nodded along with him, but she said very little of her own. John had found it odd, given her infatuation with Sherlock, but had finally concluded that perhaps she grieved differently, or that maybe his own presence was not welcome and was making her own pain worse. So he stopped visiting her and she didn’t object. Occasionally he still receives notes from her. Not invitations, just little scribbles expressing kindness toward him. 

_John, I hope you’re doing well. -Molly._

John couldn’t even be angry with the inspector who came to him weeks after The End and hung his head and wept in front of John as he’d never imagined Lestrade to do—because Lestrade had cared about Sherlock, had looked after him before John’s arrival, had hoped for him, had tugged him up by his collar at his darkest times and looked into his dilated pupils and handed him to Mycroft saying, _make this better._ Sherlock had tested him just like everyone else, but Lestrade believed in him even now when everyone else had moved on. 

John has moved past the anger and bone crippling grief. For months he’d thought himself broken and rendered useless. He’d accidentally walk to the old flat, the one he’d shared with Sherlock, before remembering he didn’t live there anymore. Once he’d even collapsed out front as his vision darkened and his breathing constricted. He shook as he rode out the panic attack and realized that it wasn’t even the flat that was important. He didn’t live with _Sherlock_ anymore. He would never live with Sherlock again. That flat had been Sherlock. It had been filled up with that madman and made bright and alive by his insufferable, arrogant, brilliant, _beautiful,_ character. Bigger than any human he’d met before. Just as gas moves to fill the farthest corners of its confinement, Sherlock was so much of a person that he didn’t just fill a body, but an entire flat, and he’d carried John along with him until John didn’t know what the world was without Sherlock. 

John resisted the genius though. He’d retained himself and tried to build his own world inside of the storm that had been Sherlock Holmes. Or so he’d thought. 

Because even now, after ten months, when John really should be better, when he should be coming out of the gaping hole left by the detective, he still can’t smile without thinking of Sherlock’s chuckle or pass a hospital without thinking of Sherlock’s experiments. He still can’t fall asleep without remembering the sound of Sherlock pacing downstairs. 

It’s past the time when people feel sorry for him anymore. By now people expect him to be better, to have picked up the pieces of his life and started over. He’s run out of sympathy. Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade understand, but really no one else. Because no one else _knew_ Sherlock, knew his incredible personhood and brilliance. No one else suffered through his antics so intimately and also witnessed the shades of vulnerability and alien kindness Sherlock had been prone to. Sherlock had never been still. He was like some kind of strange insect, always busy, always flitting from one space to another in a matter of minutes—seconds even. Even when he was quiet, lying on the couch for hours or sulking in his room, he was a whirlwind, a storm of wit and breathtaking glamour. John had always been in awe of that mind; even when he hated it he lived in a perpetual state of wonder at Sherlock’s character. And though Sherlock could so effectively be a twat, he could also just as easily be good-humored, engaging, and gentle. 

Maybe John is just a weaker man than he’d thought. He’s survived a war, recovered from an injury, has witnessed horrendous crimes, but cannot handle this. This has broken him. In a way, John doesn’t know who he is anymore. Sherlock had so quickly become his world, had defined his life that John forgot what he did before. It all just seems so plain anymore. And small. When he thinks of his grand adventures with his gifted companion—how can normal life compare to that? 

Even Harry doesn’t understand why he’s still so broken up about it. _“He was just your flatmate, John.”_

But she’s wrong. Sherlock had been his best friend, his greatest infuriation, his preoccupation, and his savior in a way. John had loved him. 

John had loved him. 

It took a long time after The End for John to finally acknowledge that. It took a long time before the thought even occurred to him, but when it did it all hit John again. He realized he had lost much more than a friend. He’d lost _Sherlock._ And John had loved him with every cell in his body—he knows that now. But only now, when it’s too late to do anything. 

John hasn’t gone back to the grave since that first visit with Mrs. Hudson, when he still believed that _somehow_ Sherlock had tricked them all. He’s realised since then that it had been a hope borne of desperation, but he still hadn’t returned to that bleak bone-yard. 

He went after the epiphany. He stood in front of the black gravestone, now dulled by the residue of rain and the husks of flowers likely left there by a few remaining believers, loyal fans and admirers now surely convinced of Sherlock’s guilt. John thought he’d be able to do it—stand there and speak to Sherlock’s grave as he had the first time when he’d almost been able to believe Sherlock was there, listening in some form—but this time his strength failed him and he trembled despite the warm wind. There was nothing in that graveyard, he realised, except the corpses of bodies long past, being eaten away in the dirt, and Sherlock now joining them, turning to dust, his beautiful and inhuman face gone to rot. After long minutes had passed, he finally touched the stone, brushing away the dried flowers almost as if he were brushing dust off Sherlock’s jacket as he had so many times before. And he spoke, just two sentences and then he left. 

“I loved you, Sherlock. 

I loved you so much.” 

His therapist had seemed hopeful at the revelation, believing it would help him move past the grief and onto recovery. She believed it would strengthen him. “Now that you know, John. Now that you know what he meant to you, perhaps you can say goodbye.” 

He stopped seeing her shortly after that session. Mycroft had called him concerned that John was no longer accepting the sessions he had so graciously paid for—a small token perhaps given in an attempt to redeem his sorry name for the atrocity he had helped commit against his own brother. John had politely invited him to fuck off. 

Eventually, John went back to the clinic. Sarah was there and said they had hoped he would return. She had looked at him with sad eyes, and John could read the thoughts there, but he didn’t bother to correct her. Everyone thought he and Sherlock had been together anyway. No point in correcting her. Not anymore. 

He fell back into life but walked it with empty footsteps. 

John had seen men like himself; wrecked soldiers come home from war. They did everything they were supposed to; they worked, they paid taxes, and they went drinking. But every gesture was a fraud, a show of normalcy. He never thought he would be like any of those men. He’d come home from war and had been restless, but not hollow. He had hated his life, but not for the things he’d seen (though some of his experiences still haunt him to this day). Rather, he’d hated his life for the drudgery of it. He’d meant what he’d said. _“Nothing ever happens to me.”_ He hated how true it was. 

John became like those soldiers. He finally understood: he had lost. It wasn’t simply shock that ruined those men; it was the knowledge that despite everything they had done, they had still lost something vital out in that hot dustland. John began ghosting, a specter haunting his old life, doing everything he was supposed to without meaning any of it. 

And he is still ghosting. Ten months. Ten months after the fall and John still stands outside of the door marked 221B hoping completely in vain that it will all be a dream, or that he will find something new. Something to give him hope. 

He’s beyond believing it was a trick anymore, though he so desperately wants it to have been. 

So John keeps ghosting, returning to the places they’d spent time together: the flat, Angelo’s, and St. Barts. He never goes in, he only stands outside the door or peers in the window or stares at the edge of the roof, always hoping to see something he’s missed. 

There never is. 

There never will be. 

He always tells himself he won’t come back; he’s done with this. But it’s a lie and he knows it. 

He returns without fail, again and again, the shadow of a man that he had been. John doesn’t believe in John Watson anymore. He’ll believe in Sherlock until his dying day, but John Watson was a farce—he’s nothing without his other half. What is a blogger when he has nothing to write about? What is a soldier if he has nothing to fight for? 

It took a long time to be able to walk past the flat again. At first, right after the fall, he couldn’t leave. He’d stayed in there for days, hoping and blindly expecting Sherlock to walk through the door alive and well with some brilliant explanation about his jump. John would yell and rage at him and Sherlock would chuckle and belittle his anger. And things would be as they were. 

Then after John left, he could not go back. Sometimes he would, just by accident, forget to stay away. But it always hurt. So much. And he learned to avoid it. Mrs. Hudson had gone in herself to collect his things for him, though there were some things she’d forgotten and he’d had to replace on his own—his cane for one, which he could no longer go without, as his limp had returned worse than ever before. 

For a long time he avoided even passing by his former home. He had his cabs take routes around Baker Street and avoided the area like the plague. Finally after a good while (though not so long in the grand scheme of things) he allowed himself to see the flat again. Just for a few seconds through the window of a cab. 

And then he began ghosting. He walked back to the flat that night and stood at the door, not entering, just standing. It felt like stepping into his old self. There were nights when he would go and stand across the street from 221B and look into the window. He wished he could look in through the glass and see the past. He imagined he might see Sherlock at the window, violin in hand. Behind him, a Christmas party just beginning—that cursed party when Sherlock had been so cruel to poor Molly, and then to everyone’s surprise, had been incredibly kind. 

John remembers seeing Sherlock apologise to Molly and the strange feeling he’d felt in his gut watching Sherlock kiss her cheek. At the time John had thought it to be shock. He knows now it was (at least in some part) jealousy. 

And John remembers his date leaving him. He couldn’t blame her now. He’d ignored her practically the whole time. Despite sitting near her, his attention had been almost entirely on Sherlock. Even when he’d chatted with Lestrade, he’d watched Sherlock from the corner of his eye, tracking the detective’s movements. So of course she’d felt annoyed. Julie…Jessica…Jennifer… God, John couldn’t even remember her name anymore. But she’d been right. She stood no chance in the competition against Sherlock. She wasn’t even a blip against his radiance. How could he ever have even pretended to be interested in anyone else when Sherlock had taken up all the space inside John’s heart? 

Sherlock would have scoffed at that. The “heart” sentiment. He’d call John over-romantic and trite. _It’s just an organ, John. It can even be replaced._

John stands outside the flat for a long time, as he always does. When he leaves, he promises not to return, as he always does. 

It would not be accurate to say that John does nothing else. He lives his own life; he works, he goes out to the pub (mostly on his own, sometimes with Lestrade, or even Seth from counseling. Seth had been the only fellow he’d been able to tolerate at that sorry gathering). John gets his own groceries and has even been on a couple dates, though they were both a bit of an empty gesture after he’d realised he was still in love with his dead flatmate. He does not spend all his time retracing the steps he’d once taken with his remarkable companion, but he spends a lot more than would be considered healthy. That is, if he were concerned about his mental health anymore, which he is not. At this point he’s decided to stop worrying about it; maybe he’ll get better, maybe he won’t. There’s no stopping it either way. So instead he’s just decided to do whatever the hell he wants whether it’s hindering him or not. So when he wants to go to the gym, he goes to they gym; when he wants to go sit for hours outside 221B, he damn well does it. 

By now John knows how the flat looks from the front window better than he knows the back of his own hand. He could draw it with his eyes closed. 

So imagine his surprise when he stops by the flat on a cool Sunday afternoon and the curtains have moved. Just a hair—but they’ve _moved._ There is no denying that. He wonders if Mrs. Hudson has been up moving things about. It doesn’t seem like something she would do. Last they’d talked about it, she’d told him she didn’t go in there unless she had to. “Feels like a ghost,” she’d said. “Just doesn’t feel right in there anymore.” 

Looking at the curtain, John can’t help but worry that someone else has been in the flat. Mrs. Hudson has never been the tightest on security—that was always John, paranoid someone would come hunting for Sherlock in the night or that some crazed fan would wander into the flat. These days, it wouldn’t be hard for someone to rob the flat bare (as no one ever checks on it) though John can’t imagine anything in there worth taking anyway. 

He deliberates for a moment before limping across the street and finally knocking on the door he hasn’t touched in over eight months. Mrs. Hudson is surprised to see him—that goes without saying. But she’s thrilled for the visit, insisting that she put on the kettle and greet him properly. There’s concern there too. She’s seen John, has watched him in the last months in Sherlock’s absence. She mourns for him. _Such a pity losing such a wonderful partner as Sherlock was to you, John._ John doesn’t even bother correcting her about her assumptions these days. He hasn’t for a long time, even when Sherlock was still alive he’d given up convincing her they were just flatmates. And now…well it would be lying, wouldn’t it? 

Sherlock wasn’t _such_ a great companion. He was careless and arrogant and the biggest pain in the arse John had ever met. Yet at the same time he saw glimpses of Sherlock that he’s sure few, if any, had seen before. John saw that Sherlock _cared_ more than anyone ever thought to consider. He saw exactly how much Sherlock relied on others’ opinions of him. Not necessarily as a likeable person, but as an impressive person. And with those closest to him: he cared for their hearts. Offending them? Insulting them? All fine. But when he wounded someone genuinely—if they were close to him—he showed deep and sincere remorse, as he had with Molly at Christmas and John at Baskerville. John remembers one time Sherlock, after terribly upsetting Mrs. Hudson, left a box of sweets outside her door, too sheepish to apologize, but repentant nonetheless. 

Of course, Sherlock was cruel. He was not a kind man, or even a considerate one. Sometimes John has to remind himself not to over-romanticise Sherlock’s memory. Sherlock well and truly could be a monster if it suited his purposes, and if the recipient wasn’t one of his companions…well then they were just in his way. He’d yelled at children, had shaken elderly men, and had gleefully mutilated CIA operatives all in the name of his “work.” 

John does not have any delusions about Sherlock’s sensitivity. It was always the work, and then sometimes John too. John now realises Sherlock had carved out a place for him, had given John space in his head and his life. John, in turn, had slipped seamlessly into the space, never even knowing the difference until after The End. Perhaps John shouldn’t have forgiven Sherlock all his crimes, but he had. 

Except one. 

Sherlock’s biggest crime: wrapping John up in his storm, changing John, capturing him, and then leaving him grieving, wrecked, and alone. 

John is lonelier now than he’s ever been. He’d never had a Sherlock before. And now all the other options don’t seem quite adequate enough to settle for. Maybe he’s sabotaging himself. He doesn’t know. But in the end, there was something extraordinary in their partnership. Sherlock Holmes the consulting detective and John Watson the army doctor. Or if he sticks with popular opinion, “the consulting couple.” Which was ridiculous, though not entirely inaccurate—at least on John’s part. 

So Mrs. Hudson is right in a way. Sherlock _was_ a wonderful partner. Perhaps not in the way Mrs. Hudson means, but in his own twisted, brilliant way. Sherlock had indeed been a wonder. 

After a good thirty minutes of small talk with Mrs. Hudson, John finally brings the conversation back to the reason he came in: the curtains. Mrs. Hudson is alarmed, her hands fluttering nervously as she expresses her worry. 

“Oh I hope no one has taken anything. I tried to keep everything in its place. It seemed…wrong to move it. He wouldn’t want that.” 

It’s funny, John thinks, that Mrs. Hudson seems to suffer from the same affliction as he—the idea that somehow, _Sherlock will return._ Death has always seemed too mundane for Sherlock, like he’d grow wearied of it and decide to run off on some other adventure. _“Death is boring, John,”_ Sherlock would say. 

_“But Sherlock, you can’t just come back from the dead. It’s not possible.”_

_“I’ve better things to do than wait around for the earthworms to eat away at my body.”_

He’d still be beautiful too, John decides. Not even the creatures in the ground would dare to disfigure such incredible art as Sherlock Holmes. 

John does his best to soothe Mrs. Hudson. “Let’s just take a look. We can’t do anything until we know if someone has been messing about up there.” 

Thus John Watson returns to the flat he once shared with Sherlock Holmes. 

Nothing has changed, not really. Some things have been moved, such as the things Mrs. Hudson boxed up: John’s things, now gone, and Sherlock’s equipment, which she ended up just leaving in the flat rather than donating to a school. 

John wonders what Sherlock would think of how they’ve left everything very nearly as it was. Would he appreciate the consideration? Or would he laugh at their sentiment? John suspects the latter, but then again he’ll never really have the chance to find out. His Sherlock now is only imagined, just an echo of the Sherlock that _was._

There’s dust, but not too terrible considering the eight months of undisturbed accumulation. It’s like stepping into the past, right when he had moved in. The boxes and the clutter are just like when he first saw the flat. He’d commented on the disorder, and Sherlock had immediately gone into a frenzy, trying to make it seem less messy, more suitable. Sherlock had made an effort from the very beginning with John; Sherlock tried to be good, and accommodate for his new flatmate; or at least that’s what John likes to think. 

John doesn’t know what he expected to feel upon walking back into the flat. He hadn’t really thought to expect anything; he’d been too focused on finding out what had moved the curtains to even consider what it would be like to be back in the place he’d shared with Sherlock. Eighteen months. It had only been eighteen months, but those months seem to have comprised the most important period of his life. And now ten months since, everything seems grey next to what had been before. 

John reminds himself why he’s here. _The curtains._ He walks to the window to check the curtains and indeed, they have moved. The film of dust on the sill is broken, signs of where the curtains have shifted and brushed it away. Recently. It’s interesting, but not enough to suspect anything, especially considering that nothing important seems to be missing. And there are no signs of forced entry either. It’s more likely that the movement of the curtains was due to a draft or some other environmental stimulus rather than human influence. 

John hears Mrs. Hudson clear her throat behind him. 

“It doesn’t look like anyone has been up here. Do you see anything John?” 

“No.” John is surprised by how thin his voice sounds. “No it looks fine. I don’t see anything missing. It must have just been…my imagination.” 

“Alright dear,” she gestures towards the door. “Well, if nothing’s been messed with, then perhaps we should—” 

But John doesn’t want to go. Everything in him so badly wants to stay here, if only for a little while, breathe in his old life, and remember what was. He walks over to his chair and brushes his hand over the back of it. There’s a small flurry of dust, but it’s in good condition. As it should be, considering it’s been only ten months since The End and eight since John had walked out of the flat for the last time. “Actually, I think I’m going to stay for a bit, if that’s alright.” 

Mrs. Hudson nods her head understandingly. “That’s fine. Just make sure you lock up when you leave. You still have your key.” 

Indeed, he did have his key. She’d never had him return it. It had seemed silly at the time, but he appreciated the gesture now.

“Of course. It’s been nice talking with you. I’ll—try to stop by more often.” 

She smiles and closes the door behind her, leaving John alone in his former flat. He sinks into the chair and closes his eyes. He tries to remember what it had been like, with Sherlock here. The detective would be playing his violin maybe, or experimenting in the kitchen. But most likely he’d be skulking on the sofa or glowering in his chair in contemplative silence. 

_“Don’t say anything John.”_

_“I wasn’t going to.”_

_“Yes, you were.”_

_“You can’t know that.”_

_“Yes, I can, and don’t try to deny it. You mock both me and yourself by making any attempts at subterfuge.”_

_“What are you so preoccupied with? We don’t even have a case.”_

_Sherlock grinned, and a chill ran up John’s spine. “You’re right. We don’t have a case. But we could. How do you feel about kidneys, John?”_

John smiles at the memory. He smiles at what his life had been. Yes, perhaps his life is a sham now; perhaps he’s just a husk of who he’d been with Sherlock, but he _had been_ that man. He had been that magnificent John. He had been _Sherlock’s_ John. And now knowing he’d loved that infuriating genius—it had been worth it. Every moment. 

_Why did you have to go, Sherlock? Why did you have to jump? I could have helped you. We could have run together. God, I would have followed you anywhere._

Maybe he should be more upset by it all. Maybe he should be more conflicted with the realisation that he’d loved his _male_ flatmate. He’d loved Sherlock, and Sherlock had been beyond any rules or boundaries. Even John’s apparently. It doesn’t seem worth the fuss or the identity crisis. He’s dealt with the denial and confusion, but it had seemed a joke next to the denial and confusion of Sherlock’s death. It was just a trifle… 

And that’s when a detail catches John’s attention and his eyes fly open, seeking out the fireplace mantle where there should be— 

But it’s gone. And he has to force himself to calm down, talk himself away from all the thoughts he’s been trying to get over in the last ten months. Because the skull is missing and that seems _huge,_ but now he’s telling himself it’s nothing, Mrs. Hudson must have taken it, or moved it somewhere else; she’d never liked that skull. _It’s nothing. It’s nothing._ He’s walked that road before. 

After the fall, John had spent too much time searching for hope, some sort of sign that it was a trick, and his therapist had told him, _“He’s gone, John. He’s not coming back.”_ And he can’t let himself walk back into that. That haze of obsession and blind hope, just because of a missing skull. 

Finally after his heart stops racing, he decides _not_ to ask Mrs. Hudson. She moved it. He knows she did, and he also knows this is just looking for nonexistent hope again. It feels like a relief to let his suspicion go. Maybe it’s a step forward for him. 

He’s not sure if he wants to move forward. It seems like a betrayal. 

And then John is hit by another wave, different this time. Because he’s sick of it. He’s sick of hiding from his old life and looking back in through the windows like a shadow. He wants to be back _here._ He wants to go to Angelo’s again, even if it just means sitting at the corner table on his own. Why should he shield himself from all this? It’s not like he’s gotten any better. Why hide from it? This, _sitting here,_ feels right. This is where he’s supposed to be. Even if Sherlock isn’t here, it’s one step closer to the John he had once been. 

Eventually, John forces himself to leave. Just before he walks out, he presses his hand to the door as a promise to himself before locking it behind him as Mrs. Hudson had asked 

_I’ll be back._

*** 

The visit to the flat marks a change for John. 

He stops ghosting and begins going back to old places, or rather, he visits them properly instead of just staring longingly from afar. He dines at Angelo’s again. If there’s any shock of seeing him there, it isn’t shown. Instead, John is simply handed a menu and receives a polite, “Good to see you, John.” He spends a lot of time there now, eating dinner at the restaurant at least twice a week. It’s more time than he’d spent there with Sherlock, but it feels right. Not necessarily _good,_ but right. 

He goes back to St. Bart’s under the pretense of visiting Stamford, but really it’s just to be back in the building. He’s pleasantly surprised to discover that Stamford is a kindred spirit, and the man enthusiastically voices his continued support for Sherlock’s reputation. 

After a while, John moves back into the flat. Mrs. Hudson is thrilled about it. She expresses concern at first about the possible burden the stairs might impose, and though his limp has become severe enough that the stairs do indeed seem daunting, John assures her he can handle it. She even goes so far as to only charge him half the rent, too glad to have at least one of her former tenants back to care about the money. Being surrounded by Sherlock’s memory is overwhelming at first, but John falls back into place at 221B just as he has everywhere else. He cleans up the place, dusts off the surfaces. He even puts all of Sherlock’s equipment approximately back where it had been. 

Along with the change in his lifestyle, there has been a corresponding change in his demeanour. Is he happier? Not necessarily. But he feels more like _John._ He’s more content. But he’s infinitely sadder as well because he’s living in the sites of his mourning and grief. He wonders sometimes if perhaps it’s not some form of masochism. 

John starts carrying his gun again. He doesn’t need it. He knows it’s probably not his brightest idea, but it makes him feel another step closer to Sherlock’s John. 

And he’s re-living everything, all his old memories with Sherlock. They resurface every night. When he’s cooking, he’ll remember quarreling with Sherlock over the appropriate use for the dishware. When he’s stocking the fridge, he’ll remember what used to take the space now occupied by food. He’ll remember eyeballs in the microwave and toenails sitting out in glasses of various soft drinks and accidentally using crushed tooth powder as salt. 

There are more intense memories as well. 

He remembers coming home to find Mrs. Hudson bruised and battered. He remembers stitching up a broken Sherlock and wiping the blood out of his eyes. John remembers the real fights: his own frustrated screaming and Sherlock being callous and unyielding. He’d push John to the edge and not care a whit that John was livid enough to genuinely consider moving out. 

He never would have though. 

Often the memories are enough to overwhelm John. He’ll sink into his chair (or Sherlock’s) and he can’t stop it. He can’t keep the hot, angry tears from spilling into his palms; he can’t stop the frantic, ragged breathing and the burning in his lungs as his body pulls in on itself; he can’t stop replaying the images in his head of Sherlock lying shattered and empty on the ground, his pale eyes staring up at nothing. He can’t fix this. He can’t protect Sherlock anymore, or stich him up. Wiping the blood from Sherlock’s eyes isn’t going to do anything anymore. After ten months, John is finally letting himself grieve properly, and sometimes it seems nearly too much. 

One night, after a particularly harrowing shift at the surgery, he collapses onto the sofa. He remembers the childish spats they’d had about this sofa. 

_“Sherlock, you need to move.”_

_“I really can’t be bothered to, John.”_

_“No. Just move your legs over. There’s no reason you need to use the whole sofa to watch telly.”_

_“Studies have shown that this position is the best for eliminating stress on the lower back.”_

_“That is a lie, and you know it.”_

_“I’m not moving John.”_

_“Fine, don’t move. I’ll just sit on top of you.”_

_“No, you won’t.”_

_“Try me.” John launches himself on top of his flatmate, who seems genuinely shocked that he’s carried out his threat._

_“John—what are you—John! Get off me.”_

_“This is your doing.”_

_“I can’t breathe!”_

_“Not my problem.”_

_“Your methods of persuasion are crude to the point of being offensive.”_

_“MOVE SHERLOCK.”_

_“NO. I WILL NOT YIELD TO YOUR TERRORISM.”_

_“Then I hope you like not being able to breathe.”_

_There’s a lot of wriggling and complaining, but eventually it all works out fine. John finds a niche in Sherlock’s ridiculous tangle of limbs, and settles in, perhaps a little closer than necessary. Sherlock is warm though, and John is feeling a little drowsy and he can’t really be arsed to reposition himself. After a while they both fall asleep with the television blaring away, and when John wakes up he finds himself trapped in Sherlock’s arms and Sherlock’s sleeping face is above his, spilling drool into John’s hair._

That evening John hurts worse than usual—because he knows now why he was fine with it. He’d never even questioned waking up in his flatmate’s arms, when by all rights he should have been bothered by it given his constant refrain of _“I’m not actually gay.”_

Maybe not gay, but something else. Whatever John is, Sherlock had found his way into John’s heart and nested himself in firmly as a cherished little anomaly. 

That night John wanders into Sherlock’s room for the first time since he’d been in there to clean. He collapses into the bed and he doesn’t cry, but he might as well. He spends the whole night shuddering awake, the image of Sherlock on the pavement branded into his eyelids. Each time he pulls Sherlock’s blanket a little tighter until he’s solidly cocooned himself into the detective’s former sleeping place. _He’d pitch a tantrum about me sleeping in his bed,_ John thinks, _but there’s not much he can do about it now._ It would be a smug thought if it weren’t so dismal. 

From then on he sleeps in Sherlock’s bed, each morning making the trek upstairs to his own room to get dressed. 

People notice the change in John. Sarah comments that he seems more present now than he’s been in the last ten months. Lestrade thinks he’s gotten his edge back. 

There’s concern as well. When John tells Lestrade about moving back into the flat, the inspector seems shocked. He gives the same response Harry had. “Are you sure that’s the best idea?” What they really think is that John is regressing, allowing himself to linger where he should not. Because everyone thinks he should move _on._ He can’t though. He needs to live in that space he’d made for himself, where he’d been bigger and better and brighter and all sorts of _more wonderful._

John is an idiot. He knows it. He knew it before—Sherlock had made sure he was clear on that point. John knew it anyway though. He knows he’s doing everything he was told not to. But, in the end, this is better. He’s done resisting what he wants to do. 

Mrs. Hudson is concerned too, but she’s really too thrilled to put up any sort of fuss. She visits with John almost every day now—even more than when he had first lived in the flat. He learns more about her life than he ever thought he would. John learns about her sisters. She tells him stories of her youth and he’s surprised to discover how wild she was as a young woman. John sees echoes of that now—a wicked glint in her eye, smug and knowing—and he begins to see why she and Sherlock had gotten on so well when the detective was still alive. John learns about her friends and her family and the waste of a human being that had been her husband. He finally understands the incredible kindness that had been done to her when Sherlock ensured her husband’s execution. She’s free now, and Sherlock did that for her. 

She’s understanding too and always seems to know when John is hurting, or when he’s aching for his lost detective. She never blames him or pushes him to move on or toughen up. It’s refreshing, that. John has always known Mrs. Hudson to be a marvel, but has never understood just how much until now. 

He sometimes thinks he’s making progress. But then there are occurrences that make him think, _maybe not._ Like when the _very_ attractive woman at the bank asks him out. He deliberates on it for a moment, but not seriously. Because he _knows_ he’s going to say no. And, God, he curses himself for it, because she’s exactly his type, but he can’t. 

Because he’s still in love with his dead flatmate. 

God help him. 

There are little things too. They’re just little anomalies in his life, but they threaten to truly set John back, because they almost make him believe _Sherlock is back._ They almost put him back where he’d been right after the fall. He hadn’t grieved then. He’d been too obsessed with finding the whereabouts of a dead man to mourn over his loss. But more and more there are little things that give John pause, and each time he has to force himself to remember _Sherlock is dead. He is not coming back. This means nothing._

But still, there are things. There are objects missing and moved. There are weird interactions. He chances across Molly one day at St. Bart’s while he’s visiting Stamford and she looks like she’s seen a ghost. She stammers and fidgets until John finally bids her farewell. _That was odd,_ he’d thought. 

And then there are curious things. Things he stumbles across in the flat. Books not where he remembers leaving them, dishes he doesn’t remember dirtying, or mud where he doesn’t remember tracking it in. He chalks some of this up to Mrs. Hudson, who has always had a habit of messing about in her tenants’ flat. He even stumbles across the skull at one point about three weeks after moving back in. It’s wedged into a corner near a bookshelf and John could _swear_ he’d been through there while cleaning, but apparently not, because here he is, holding the skull in his hand and— 

He’s surprised when a little note falls out, crumpled and faded with one word scrawled on it. 

_Soon._

It’s not even Sherlock’s writing, but it gives John a start. He closes his eyes and breathes through his nose, walking through the directions his therapist had given him before he’d stopped seeing her. He convinces himself again, for the millionth time, that it means nothing. 

_There’s nothing here. There never is. There never will be._

He tosses the note in the bin and places the skull back in its home on the mantle. _A friend._

Still, despite all his attempts at dismissing these little coincidences, he can’t help but take notice of them. Alone, they would hardly be worth a second thought, but when John puts them together they get harder to ignore. He doesn’t know anymore if he’s _looking_ for signs or if he’s just happening upon them. And that makes all the difference, doesn’t it? 

It really doesn’t. He has to remind himself of that too. Because he _saw_ Sherlock, and no number of silly, curious circumstances is going to make him not dead. 

Although, John has always acknowledged that if _one_ person could come back from the dead it would be Sherlock Holmes. 

So he accepts it. He accepts the little things as chances and nothing more. But there are a lot of them and they keep building, worming their way into John’s head, unsettling him. 

And finally, there’s the last sign. 

It’s late afternoon and John is coming home from a shift at the surgery—a half-shift really. The place had been so devoid of patients that he’d been sent home far earlier than he’d been scheduled to work. It’s still early enough that it’s light out, though the sky has taken on that dusky shade that signals the beginning of the end of the day. He always likes this time of day. It had been Sherlock’s favourite as well. Or rather, not his favourite, but the detective had always been slightly less irritating when the sky shifted to dark. A little kinder. He often played his violin around this hour, but not the jarring, ear-splitting tunes he was often prone to producing. He would play beautifully during this hour, just for a moment showing his true talent. 

This afternoon is warmer than usual, and John takes his time getting home, enjoying the gentle brush of wind on the back of his neck. He stops outside the flat and stares up at the window, as he had done for so long before he’d finally let himself move back in. And had it only been a month? It seems longer to him. 

He’s about to move from his post when he sees a shadow cross the window and a light flick on inside. It’s not Mrs. Hudson. She’s not home. She’s spending the weekend with her sister and her family in Bristol. Her niece is getting re-married. 

A thrill shoots up John’s spine. A thrill that really has no right to be there, because this is dangerous, and shouldn’t he be more frightened? But he’s known for a long time that he doesn’t have the typical reaction to danger. Sherlock had shown him that, though he’d known it already, to an extent. So for the first time in a long time, he picks up his cane , dashes across the street with barely a limp, and once he’s inside he draws his gun. 

John can’t hear anything. It’s dark in the entryway and he briefly considers turning on a light, but he couldn’t very well do that without alerting the intruder to his presence. He can hear the creaking of floorboards above him. It sounds like pacing, and there’s a cadence to the steps that is almost familiar. John feels a rush of prickling excitement he’s not felt in a long time—eleven months, to be specific. It’s foolish. He knows he should just call the police, but the need to investigate is like a burning itch, and he’s not sure he cares enough to keep from scratching it. He’s capable, and he’s got a gun; John knows he can defend himself if he needs to. He’s defended himself before (and Sherlock as well, when he was around to be defended). John can imagine Sherlock smiling at his bravado—the detective had never believed in playing it safe. So John continues up the stairs, skipping over the creaky one, and he pauses outside the door to the flat. It’s just slightly ajar and through it he can see a shadow, and he hears the impact of feet on the floor more clearly this time. He flicks off the safety. He’s not anticipating actually _using_ the gun, but it’s best to be prepared. 

With that he kicks open the door, raises his gun, and bellows, “Don’t move, I’m armed!” 

But…this isn’t what he was expecting at all. This isn’t possible. He has to be hallucinating or dreaming or—something. Because this isn’t possible. 

Sharp cheekbones. Bright eyes. A sharp sliver of a human being. It’s all familiar because it’s Sherlock. The madman he’d thought dead, now standing before him in the flesh. Almost exactly as he was. Just as put together. Just as beautiful. Perhaps thinner. It’s like looking at a memory slightly distorted by time, and John doesn’t understand what is happening, because— 

This is not possible. 

But it is. And it makes sense. God, it makes sense. Not how he’d survived, that doesn’t make any sort of sense, but that he’d survived at all. Of course he had. 

The dead man speaks, calm and impassive, and it ignites a simmering rage in John’s veins. “John, I’m back.” 

How simply could he put that? Three words that effectively overturn everything John has been through in the last year and he’s just standing there, hands in the pockets of that bloody coat and he—does he have any _idea?_ Does he have any clue what John has been through in his absence? That John has fallen into desperation and panic at the thought of the detective; that he’s had to bite his hand to stop the shaking, and even then, after his teeth pierced the skin, his breath could not return to him. Because he saw his best friend jump from a fucking roof and looked into his lifeless eyes and _checked his pulse,_ and he was _dead._ Does Sherlock have any clue how those close to him have suffered? Or has he simply thought that their lives would pause in his absence and he could return and slip back into how things were? This depraved prodigy standing before him, cool and arresting, and John doesn’t even care about the hint of worry darkening those kaleidoscopic eyes, because Sherlock _did this._

John has just enough of his wits about him to flick the safety back on and tuck his gun firmly into his belt. He hardly notices doing it though because he is quickly distracted an overpowering need to drive his fist into Sherlock’s alien face with as much force as he can muster. It’s the only thing that seems to make sense right now, as if the only possible course of action is _hurt Sherlock._ John gets three good blows in before Sherlock gains control and shoves him away. In the following silence John is shocked to see a bright smear of blood on his fist. Sherlock’s blood. And then John’s legs give out. 

He collapses against the wall, sobbing, his breath hitching in his chest, and it _burns._ God, it burns. He tries to gain control of himself, but he can’t. Sherlock is standing right in front of him and John is still grieving, more than ever, the death of a man who _never died._ A man who John loved and lost and he’s back now and John has no idea what that means. 

John is on the floor for a long time, grasping his bloodied fist while he fights to keep from hyperventilating. And he has to laugh at himself a little. _You fought and survived a war in Afghanistan and you stood your ground, but Sherlock pushes you to hysteria._ He slowly grows aware that Sherlock has not moved. Not even a breath. 

Finally he looks up to see Sherlock and he doesn’t know what he was expecting to see. Not this, certainly. Not this broken, distraught creature. The calm façade from before is gone, replaced by an expression John has seen only a few times before. John is shocked by how childlike Sherlock looks. Regret is written on every inch of his face, and pain, and confusion, and fear. John’s anger vanishes, almost as if it never was, and a little voice in John’s head speaks up. _He may very well have suffered too._ And it seems to be so, because on closer inspection, Sherlock is more malnourished than John had originally thought. His lips are cracked and there are deep shadows under his eyes. He’s still put together, well groomed, well _dressed,_ but beyond that he looks…grim. Empty. And John can feel himself forgiving Sherlock in spite of everything. 

He never stood a chance. He never has. 

Sherlock is still looking at John fearfully and he wonders if Sherlock has noticed the blood running down his face from John’s attack. It doesn’t seem so. John slowly pulls himself up from the floor and walks off to fetch the first-aid kit from the kitchen. He won’t need stiches, but John hit him hard enough for there to be considerable swelling, so he grabs some ice as well. When he returns Sherlock is in the same place. 

“Sit down, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock obeys silently. It seems he’s decided reticence is the best course of action for now and John can’t help but agree. He wants to know where Sherlock has been, how he survived, _why_ he jumped, and so much more—but not now. As he wipes the blood off Sherlock’s face, he can’t help but admire the man sitting before him. Even now, emaciated and estranged, John has to marvel at the man. What John would really like to do is wrap his arms around Sherlock and hold the underfed detective, just to convince himself that yes, Sherlock is real, and he’s back. John still doesn’t quite believe it. But there are things to be done. 

Organising things always helps. If he does things methodically, he won’t lose his temper; if he focuses, he won’t start to panic. A system always makes things a bit easier, and now is no exception. “After this is cleaned up, you’re going to eat.” Sherlock starts to object, but John cuts him off. “No. Have you seen yourself recently? You’re starving. How long has it been since you’ve eaten something?” Sherlock doesn’t answer. Instead, he hardens his eyes and lifts his chin just a bit. John knows this means he wouldn’t like the answer. It has to have been at least three days. Probably more. “Well, I’ll make you soup so that it doesn’t make you sick. If you haven’t eaten for as long as I’m thinking you haven’t, anything more than that will be too much for your system.” 

Sherlock glowers, and John can’t help but smile at the familiarity of the expression. 

So John sticks to his plan, and while Sherlock is eating he doesn’t try to stop himself from staring.

“Are you staying here?” John hadn’t seen a bag, so he couldn’t be sure. Sherlock might very well have somewhere else to stay. John is now convinced Sherlock has been in town for a while, as he’s starting to think that those coincidences weren’t simply coincidences. Most likely not. Sherlock has to have been staying somewhere else. 

“If you’ll let me.” 

“Yes.” John says it before thinking and then isn’t quite sure, but it’s too late either way. Sherlock smiles though—a real one—and it warms John’s heart enough to reassure him. “So, you don’t need to…leave again?” 

“No, I’ve finished everything I need to.” Sherlock pauses at John’s questioning look. “I’ll tell you everything, John.” 

“Yeah you will.” 

Sherlock snorts at John’s tone. “Yes. I will. Just—not tonight.” 

“Of course.” He watches Sherlock swallow another spoonful of soup. “Where have you been staying?” 

Sherlock grins again. “You’ve been observant. I’m impressed. I’ve been staying with Molly.” 

And then it clicks. Molly knew. Of course she knew. She’d acted so strange before and John had just thought she was uncomfortable, but it was because she _knew_ and he didn’t. “How long?” 

“Six weeks.” 

Sherlock knows it was wrong. John doesn’t even have to ask. He can tell by the way Sherlock’s gaze falters and his mouth scrunches up. Sherlock never looks away. Never. Not unless he knows he’s wrong. 

John knows Sherlock isn’t going to respond this time. He’s never been one to admit fault (at least not until long after the fact), but his remorse is obvious enough to strike a chord within John, and he feels himself softening again. Instead John switches topics, curious to see just who else has been keeping secrets from him. “Alright then. Does Mycroft know you’re back?” 

This time Sherlock responds. “Of course he does. It didn’t take him long to figure out what I’d done. By then I was too far off for him to do anything immediate, but he made sure I was aware that he was keeping track of me.” 

“Has he apologised?” 

Sherlock snorts. “Hardly. He did lend me some assistance a couple times. I suppose he thinks that makes us even.” 

John scowls and his anger towards Mycroft bubbles back to the surface, even stronger than his anger toward Molly. John has never forgiven the man for what he did. Whatever hostility John feels towards Molly he can’t deny she did her best to help Sherlock, and that’s worth something. Mycroft _betrayed_ Sherlock though, to the one person he knew beyond a doubt had set out to destroy the detective. Nothing compares to that. In a way, John is grateful to Molly. He resents her, but he’s grateful, because he knows that whatever the circumstances she would have done her best to look out for Sherlock. They’re on the same side in the end. 

“Does Molly know you planned on coming back here tonight?” 

“Yes. I left her a note thanking her.” 

It’s surprising enough that John is distracted from his resentment. “You _thanked_ her?” 

“Yes…you’re surprised. Why are you surprised?” 

“No. I’m not—” John grins despite himself and he tries to hide it by taking a spoonful of his own soup. He composes himself. “No. I was just worried she wouldn’t know where you’d gone.” Sherlock nods in assent and takes an indelicate slurp of his own steaming broth. 

A little later Sherlock speaks up again. “I did it for you. Not that it makes any difference, but I didn’t want to go, John.” 

“I wish you had told me.” 

“I couldn’t.” 

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it.” 

“I didn’t expect you to.” 

And then that’s it for a long while. They sit in silence while they both finish eating. Later, while John is doing the dishes, Sherlock searches the flat for his violin, tunes it, and begins to play. The song is beautiful and sad and nothing John has ever heard before, so he assumes it’s one of Sherlock’s, though he hasn’t really heard enough music to confidently make that guess. After John has dried all the dishes he sits on the sofa and listens to Sherlock play for a good thirty minutes. It almost feels like his life before The End. 

Finally, John yawns and stands up, his exhaustion getting the better of him. “I’m going to bed. I’ll—see you in the morning I guess. Will you be here?” 

“Yes.” 

What John really wants to do is reach out to Sherlock. He wants to take Sherlock’s hand and hold it, and make him _promise_ he won’t disappear again. He wants to look into the detective’s eyes and see truth written in those icy irises. But John is stubborn enough that he won’t do any of those things. It would be too much like a reprieve, and as glad as he is Sherlock has returned, John isn’t quite ready to forgive Sherlock for his crimes. So instead John simply says, “Alright. Goodnight then,” like it’s not killing him to walk away from the newly restored Sherlock, and like he doesn’t hate himself a little for being so easy to win over. John starts off towards Sherlock’s room—where he’s slept for several weeks now—without even thinking about it. He hears Sherlock behind him. 

“John? Your room is upstairs.” 

“Yes it is.” 

“…Okay.” 

It’s funny. He had expected Sherlock to put up more of a fight, but no such argument arises. He makes his way down the hall to Sherlock’s room, deciding that Sherlock can figure out his own sleeping situation, whatever that ends up being. Sherlock’s bed is more comfortable, and the room is warmer, and John has gotten used to it. Besides, after all John’s been through tonight he’s calling the shots, and tonight he’s sleeping in Sherlock’s bed, whether Sherlock likes it or not. It’s a smug resolution, and he can’t help but feel a little triumphant. John also has to admit to himself that a part of him hopes maybe Sherlock will join him, though that seems unrealistic. 

So John is a little surprised when he feels Sherlock crawl into bed beside him a few hours later, but he doesn’t question it. Sherlock does though. 

“Is this okay?” 

“Of course. It’s your bed.” 

John is almost asleep again when Sherlock’s voice rouses him. 

“I missed you. The whole time, every day, John. I just wanted to come back. I was afraid you’d moved on.” 

“I tried.” 

“I know.” 

The next time John wakes it’s early and the first signs of dawn are showing in through the window, the sky tinted blue. Another grey hour. 

It’s then that he notices Sherlock’s arms encircling him. He remembers that night on the sofa again, and this time he isn’t sad. Instead, he returns the embrace, wrapping his free arm around the sleeping detective. 

Or—not sleeping. 

He’s surprised by the clarity in Sherlock’s voice and at this proximity John can feel the baritone rumble of it in Sherlock’s chest. 

“It took a long time to figure out,” Sherlock begins, and John can’t tell if Sherlock is being intentionally vague or just expects him to understand immediately. 

“What?” 

“You.” 

“What about me?” 

“That I loved you too. I still do, I think.” 

“Good.” It’s all John can think to say. Because it _is_ good. And so he does the only logical thing he can do at this point. He cranes his head up and kisses Sherlock. 

It’s a sleepy kiss, but sweet. He can feel Sherlock’s apology in it, but when they pull apart Sherlock says it anyway. 

“I’m sorry, John.” 

John presses his face into the hollow at the base of Sherlock’s neck. “I’ll forgive you.” 

“Good.” 

And John smiles. It’s different, this. But if this is their new normal, John won’t put up a fight. He won’t fight whatever their new normal turns out to be. It can’t be as it had been. Not exactly. It may be similar, but there’s been too much heartbreak and tragedy for them simply to fall back into their old places. John knows now what Sherlock means to him. He knows the heartache, loss, and longing. John is lucky—most people don’t get a second chance. He sure as hell isn’t going to let go of Sherlock again. He’ll take whatever he can get. Maybe they’ll even revisit the “consulting couple” idea. It doesn’t sound too terrible anymore. 

It will take time. He’s still got some yelling left to do. At the moment he can’t seem to find his anger though. It got lost somewhere in Sherlock’s arms and was perhaps blown away by Sherlock’s warm breath drifting gently over John’s head. 

There’s still a lot of bad left to deal with. But this? This is good. 


End file.
